


Strangely Satisfying:  First Impressions

by Aurilia



Series: Strangely Satisfying [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, First Meetings, M/M, Omega!Sherlock, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurilia/pseuds/Aurilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John meet for the first time.  John's confused and Sherlock is scheming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangely Satisfying:  First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a quick break from my _Infinitely Stranger_ Reichenbach chapter, so I give y’all this. Hope you like it. It’s written using the rules for the alpha/beta/omega world I outlined in [the primer I wrote](http://archiveofourown.org/works/885485) (and why it shares its title with that same primer). You don’t need to read the primer, but if you do you will understand this world a little better than you would otherwise. 
> 
> **Warnings:** This is an A/B/Ω fic. This means, if you’re unaware of the significance, that it is by its very nature SLASH. Though this particular onefer doesn’t have any explicit sex (this being pre-slash), if male/male relationships aren’t your ‘thing’, you ought to find yourself a different fic to read.
> 
> ETA: This fic also shifts POVs rather often, going from John to Sherlock and back. If you're uncertain to whom a particular thought belongs, check the POV of the paragraph in which it is embedded to find your answer.

**Strangely Satisfying:  First Impressions**

_Knocking noise.  Means someone’s at the door._   The recognition flashed through his brain too fast to make any imprint on his conscious thoughts.  His eyes flicked over, then refocused on his work.  _Michael Rupert Stamford, actual age: forty, functional age: fifty-six or -seven.  Asthma, chronic bronchitis, high cholesterol.  Far-sighted badly enough to be effectively blind without glasses.  Annoyingly good-natured and cheerful.  Prefers coffee to tea and is the sole reason why the coffee in the break room upstairs is even marginally palatable.  Currently professor of various microbiology classes.  Notable work on Escherichia coli, Clostridium botulinum, and the various Salmonella bacteria.  Papers published to date: six, most recently in November on food-borne pathogens common to fresh produce.  Beta.  Married.  No children._   Again, the vast majority of this knowledge skittered at the edges of his awareness without impinging on his focus.

He added the reagent to the paint sample on his slide, then snapped it into place on the microscope as Stamford’s companion limped into the room and looked around.  A moment later, he said, “Well, bit different from my day.”

Sherlock glanced over.  _Alpha.  Doctor.  Limp, tan, bearing – revision:  Military doctor.  Invalided out.  Functional age: thirty-one or -two.  Actual age three to five years higher.  Limp – psychosomatic._   His eyes returned to the slide.  _Ah, yes.  Precisely what I thought._   “Mike, may I borrow your phone?  There’s no signal on mine.”  The claim was true, but had more to do with the fact he’d not had the chance to charge it recently than any sort of dead-spot in the reception.  The sound of his voice made the newcomer startle slightly, though anyone not paying close attention – _read: everyone but me_ – wouldn’t have noticed.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked, seating himself along the workbench across from Sherlock.

“I prefer to text,” he replied.

Mike patted his pockets, then shook his head.  “Sorry.  It’s in my coat.”

On the other side of the room, John’s brain was taking a significantly longer amount of time to form impressions of the man at the microscope.  _He looks like an omega,_ he thought when the man first spoke.   _Little taller than average, but he’s got that… that… that…_   Words like ‘androgynous’ lurked just beyond his grasp.  _Whatever it is.  That not girlish, but not masculine, either, look._ The conversation regarding the lack of a phone penetrated and John retrieved his from his back pocket.  “Here,” he said, holding it out.  “Use mine.” 

The brunette blinked, then stood.  “Oh,” he said, crossing the room.  “Thank you.”

 _Definitely an alpha.  Solicitous.  Odd to find one in the military, though._ Sherlock took the phone and quickly navigated to the appropriate function.  He glanced at the newcomer again.  Mike’s voice intruded on his thoughts with, “’S an old friend of mine, John Watson.”  Sherlock ignored him, but the information was nonetheless housed in his temporary cache for the day, along with a string of possibilities.  He typed out his message to Lestrade while asking the one point of curiosity he couldn’t find the answer to merely by observation.  “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John’s breath caught halfway through a deep sniff that revealed nothing more than the chemicals and cleansers present in any lab, coupled with Mike’s overbearing cologne.  _Beta, then.  Pity._   But the question made his breath catch in his throat.  “Sorry?” he managed.

“Which was it?  Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man asked, briefly looking over at John. 

John had the distinct impression that the man was dissecting him with his gaze and glanced at Mike for help.  Mike just smiled.  _Blasted git,_ John thought at his friend.  “Afghanistan,” he reflexively answered.  “Sorry,” he blinked and shook his head slightly.  “How did you know…?”  The question went unanswered as they were interrupted by a mousy-looking woman carrying a mug.  _How on earth could he possibly know about_ _Afghanistan_ _?  Well – he didn’t.  He asked.  But how could he narrow it down to ‘_ _Afghanistan_ _or_ _Iraq_ _’?_   John paid no attention to the enigmatic man’s interaction with the woman, aside from noting, _Might be an omega after all.  Selfishness is part and parcel in their natures,_ but it was mostly a subliminal thought.  The man finished his text and returned John’s phone, then practically _stalked_ over to…  _Whatever it was he was doing when we came in._

Only Sherlock hadn’t returned to the microscope – that test was finished – he paused at the chromatograph to instruct it to print out the results of the paint chip he’d had it molecularly deconstruct while toying with the chip’s identical brother.  “How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked, his fingers typing the command with minimal instruction from his brain.  _Not entirely what I'd wanted in a flatmate – and I do wish Mycroft would release my trust account – but an alpha would be far preferable to some random beta._

John glanced at the fleeing form of Molly, then at Mike.  Mike, who sat there, still smugly grinning at him.  _Why do I feel like I've been set up?_   “I'm sorry – what?”

Sherlock mentally sighed.  _Why are alphas so lamentably slow?  Correction:  Why are other_ people _so lamentably slow?_   “I play the violin when I'm thinking.  Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” he made sure to keep his tone carefully mindless as to his own health, his posture slightly deferential towards Watson, and looked up at the shorter man.  “Would that bother you?  Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John’s brain was scurrying to catch up.  The behavior the brunette was displaying was tugging on those alpha instincts in his brain to _care_ , but the man himself emitted no scent identifiable as anything other than _chemical_.  The man flashed an insincere smile at him, obviously awaiting a response.  John glanced at Mike’s smug smile, then returned his gaze to the brunette.  “Who said anything about flatmates?”  _And why can’t I smell you?  I can smell the apple muffin Mike had for brunch, the carbolic acid you used sometime before I came in, and even the wool of your coat, but you?  Not a thing._

Sherlock grabbed the printout and swirled his coat over his shoulders.  “I did,” he explained.  “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult one to find a flatmate for.  Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan.  Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”  He grabbed his scarf and stashed it in a pocket.  _Why don’t people use their minds and_ think _?_ Leaving the coat unbuttoned – a purposeful omission, one that would scream to Watson’s instincts:  _Look!  Omega cannot survive alone!_ – Sherlock picked up his dark mobile.  _Should see about obtaining an extra battery for days like this one._   He’d not slept in more than forty hours.

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?” John asked, repressing the urge to go over and do up the buttons on the other man’s coat like he would for a toddler.  Other alphas might not have remained where they were, but John’s experiences in the army had taught him to keep his caring within the bounds of doctor and patient.  _All his actions seem omegacentric.  But there isn’t any scent.  Could he have a problem with sweat in general?  Last time I came across anyone who_ didn’t _smell was that poor beta with hyperhidrosis.  She all but bathed in pure aluminum hydroxybromide every morning!_

The man looked up from his dark phone.  “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London – together we ought to be able to afford it.”  Tucking the phone away, he crossed the room once more, his head cocked slightly to one side, exposing a scandalous amount of neck.  “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock.”  The man favored him with a small, slightly more genuine smile.  “Sorry – gotta dash,” he said, heading for the door.  In an absentminded tone, he finished with, “I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

 _This is the weirdest conversation I've ever had in my life._   “Is that it?” John asked.

Sherlock paused with his hand on the door.  “Is what it?” he asked, honestly puzzled.  _I would have thought I was being completely clear._ He mentally reviewed the conversation.  _Yes – perfectly understandable.  Provided insight as to what others have listed as my less desirable traits.  Acknowledged I was searching for a flatmate.  Agreed that I would not be opposed to having this particular individual attempt the position.  Provided a meeting time._

Dr. Watson blinked at him, a shadow of dominance leaking into his posture as he asked, “We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go look at a flat?”

 _Where, exactly, was I unclear?  Though the squaring of his shoulders bodes well that my manipulations have not gone unnoticed by his instincts._ “Problem?” Sherlock asked, some of his earlier tone fading as his typical manner of speech reasserted itself.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name!” Watson replied, puffing up a little with each point.

 _Ah, yes – there’s always_ something _.  The address._   Sherlock let go of the door and took a couple of steps towards the shorter man.  His eyes quickly scanned him, while his nose took note of all the small subtleties which poured from him.  “I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan.  I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.  I know you’re an unbonded alpha with a taste for English breakfast tea, unsweetened but with milk, and that you had an apple not three hours ago.  And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid.  That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”  With each revelation, the man twitched slightly – his ingrained manners temporarily at war with the instincts that dearly wanted to lash out at a perceived threat.  “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said, recapturing his earlier tone of _helpless omega_.  “And the address is two-two-one-B Baker Street,” he said, returning to the door.  “Afternoon,” he said.  Before he left Watson’s line-of-sight, he couldn’t resist shooting the alpha a quick wink.

John watched the door hiss shut on its pneumatic spring, then looked at Mike.  Mike wasn’t much help – all he did was chuckle and say, “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t keep from smirking to himself as he gathered his riding crop, then headed out to catch a cab back to Montague Street.  _Probability of obtaining an alpha:  97%.  So much for having to remember to do my own shopping.  If I work it correctly, I doubt that I will need worry about such inanities as laundry, tidying, or even needing to keep that irritating line with the transport that tells me to eat and sleep.  This will free up nearly two hours a day of my time._

He paid the taxi driver and hurried up to his flat before he could attract the attention of Mr. Crichlow.  Sherlock’s current landlord was wholly unamused about the small hole that had eaten its way through the bath drain, and Sherlock was attempting to avoid an unnecessary confrontation.  _Only real problem at this juncture is what to do about the next heat?_   He unlocked his door and stepped inside, tossing his coat on top of a stack of books.  _Certainly, the old wives’ tale about the uncontrolled behavior of unbonded alphas around omegas in heat has been thoroughly debunked, but it would be an additional strain I am unwilling to put up with._

Sherlock plugged his phone in, then snagged his laptop and opened his research notes.  _Bensoylmethylecgonine nitrate produced a longer-lasting effect than either the sulfate or the hydrochloride.  What process would the nitrogen-based salt interfere with?  Why was it more effective than the other two?_   While Sherlock set his mind to working on the problem at hand, he turned a small portion of his attention to other things.  _Simon should be back from lunch in about twenty minutes.  I'm certain he won’t have a problem with sending his ‘boys’ over to assist in packing.  Should call Mrs. Hudson and let her know.  I'll need to leave Mycroft’s number so that Mr. Crichlow knows who to bill for repairs…_

As his brain mused on its multiple tracks, a tiny, quiet voice at the back of his mind said, _That alpha…  He smelled_ fantastic _.  Healthy.  Strong.  And he looked cuddly, too.  Cuddly’s a fine thing in an alpha, you know.  Do you think he can cook?  We need to get rid of that cane, though.  Even though he doesn’t really need it, it’s just a tiny bit disappointing to have an alpha with a visible weakness – like we couldn’t do better!_   Not a word of this actually made it through to Sherlock’s conscious mind, however.

Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I plan to revisit this ’verse again – but it’s going to be a series of one-shots, not a chaptered fic. Like I said above, I just needed a little breather from Reichenbach.
> 
> Since I've got all the details on how this world works already hammered out – and I don’t want to get into anything too plot-heavy, not yet – are there any particular scenes y’all want to see me do for this ’verse? (Please keep in mind that a.) I don’t often write porn, but plan to try for this series, so don’t bother asking, and b.) I already know which characters are alphas, betas, and omegas, so requests on that front won’t be heeded.)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


End file.
